


say it (like you mean it)

by lincesque



Series: forget yesterday (remember today) [2]
Category: Captain America (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, mafia!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:38:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/pseuds/lincesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky remembers every kill he’s made, he memorises their faces the moment before death, both as a sort of tribute to the dead but mostly as a way to keep count, to remember. There has been no mark who has ever caused him to falter, to hesitate, to actually not want to finish the job, professionalism be damned.</p><p>But Howard Stark, the mark that Bucky’s spent a week following, the one job that, once completed, will ensure he’ll never have to work again, is very much something that Bucky never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	say it (like you mean it)

**Author's Note:**

> So I accidentally a verse. Orz. Writing about these two is ridiculously addictive. But yay. TIME FOR BACKSTORYYY. Or whatever. This is the cleaned and vaguely edited version to compared to the one posted on my tumblr.
> 
> There's actually a third part already written but that won't be posted until I can give it a re-read and self-beta at some point in the near future.
> 
> THIS IS ALL REALLY SASU'S FAULT. JSYK. BTW, consistent characterisation is also not a phrase in my vocabulary.

Bucky’s the best in the business. He’s been through hell and back. He’s walked battlefields that have been the worst kind of hell and seen more death and bloodshed already at twenty seven than most men would ever see in a lifetime.

His hand is steady, his gaze is calm and almost bored as he points his gun and stares directly into his mark’s eyes, a habit left over from the old days, a habit that he’s never broken. 

Bucky remembers every kill he’s made, he memorises their faces the moment before death, both as a sort of tribute to the dead but mostly as a way to keep count, to remember. He’s killed influential men and beautiful women, he’s killed gorgeous men and powerful women. Some have been good, some have been bad, there had been the few who were neither and Bucky hadn’t cared as long as the mark wasn’t a child and that he was paid adequately. There has been no mark who has ever caused him to falter, to hesitate, to actually not want to finish the job, professionalism be damned.

But Howard Stark, the mark that Bucky’s spent a week following, the one job that, once completed, will ensure he’ll never have to work again, is very much something that Bucky never expected. He stands, straight and unflinching, before Bucky’s gun barrel, staring directly back at Bucky, deep blue eyes calm, a hint of bemusement in their depths. 

There is no fear, not even a hint of surprise or anger or panic, there’s none of the emotion that Bucky’s used to seeing on his mark’s faces the moment before he pulls the trigger. Stark doesn’t beg, doesn’t offer money or power or anything to barter for his life like some of the others do. He does nothing but watch Bucky, studying him, as if curious. It’s that, combined with the complete lack of fear, that makes Bucky's finger hover over the trigger, tightening a little, but not pulling. Not yet anyway.

“You’re not afraid.” Bucky says, states, because they both know it’s a fact: Howard Stark isn't fazed at having a professional hitman aiming a silencer equipped semi-automatic at his forehead. Bucky tilts his head, telling himself that he's merely curious as to whether Stark would provide an explanation for his behaviour and Bucky's deliberately not thinking about that tiny part of him, that tiny part hidden and unacknowledged, that doesn’t want to see those blue eyes lose their sharp vitality, to become another of many buried deep in nothing but dirt and Bucky’s memory.

Stark seems slightly startled at being addressed under these circumstances but recovers admirably, shrugging one shoulder, casual, unhurried. Calm, in control. “I’ve been expecting this day to have come a lot earlier, honestly,” he says. 

Stark smiles then, a sardonic quirk to his lips, and spreads his hands, “Do your worst, Mr. Barnes, I’m sure it’ll be relatively painless considering your field of expertise.”

Bucky’s hand tightens around his weapon for one long moment before he lowers it entirely but doesn’t flick the safety back on. Not yet. “You know who I am?” There’s a hint of surprise in his tone, hard to hear but definitely there, buried under layers and layers of disinterest and impartiality.

“You’ve been following me for a week, and I had a little free time.” This time Stark’s smile stretches a little wider and his blue eyes flash with smug humor. “James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, known also as the Winter Soldier. After taking an honorable discharge from the Army, you fell into a bad group and worked for the Russian gangs for a while. However, that arrangement ended several years back and you began hiring yourself out as a freelancer, a hired gun, offering your services to the highest bidder. Rumor has it that you’re fairly picky about your marks, only taking the ones that interest you.” Stark ticks off each tidbit of information on his fingers as he speaks. 

Stark meets Bucky’s now more obvious surprise with another shrug. “Interpol has quite the impressive file on you, Mr. Barnes.

He lowers his head a little and glances up through his dark lashes, a teasing look. “I should feel honored that you felt that I was worth your attention.”

Bucky has to swallow and sets a frown on his face. Stark was unbalancing him easily, a diversion tactic perhaps, and he had to scramble a little to keep up, to keep the power from shifting entirely. Bucky knew that he was on precarious footing already, the power having already shifted enough so that Stark wasn’t just a mark anymore. “Yeah well. The payoff was nothing to sneeze at. You have some very rich and powerful men after you.”

Stark seems intrigued. “How much is my life worth these days?”

Bucky names a number that makes Stark raise his eyebrows and whistle softly. He thinks Stark’s impressed, all the way until Stark shakes his head and huffs a laugh. “Cheap bastards.”

Stark lounges, there’s no other word for it, against the wall at his back. “How about this, Mr. Barnes, I can offer you a trade.”

Stark grins, and it’s boyish, excited. Bucky realises that for his fame and power and notoriety, Stark is only about his age, maybe even a little younger. He bounces a little on his feet and coupled with the bright grin, he looks more like a college student than the CEO of a billion dollar company. “I like men like you; solid, dependable, honorable.”

Bucky snorts but he doesn’t look away from Stark. He’s seen men with charisma, but this is completely on another level. Stark possesses a quality that makes people turn their heads, even if he’s just walking by. It makes Bucky uneasy, it makes him want to do something rash, like reaching out to touch, to push his hands through that perfectly styled hair and to mark the pale expanse of skin at the hollow of Stark’s throat with bruises from his teeth and fingertips.

He keeps his distance though, just out of reach, just so he can’t. “A hired killer is honorable?”

“You follow your own code of honor. It might differ from a normal person’s, but it’s a code nevertheless,” Stark tells him and tilts his head a little, a shock of black hair falling into his eyes. “For example, you’ve never killed a child.”

Bucky shrugs and watches the way Stark’s long fingers sweep the dark hair off his forehead. “Not my thing.”

Stark takes one step forward, closing the gap between them a little and nods. “Exactly. My point is made.”

He waves Bucky’s growing frown away with a hand, impatient, “As I was saying, I like men like you and I like _you_.” His smile is a little shy and he peers through his lashes at Bucky again, “Come work with me.”

Bucky notes the ‘with’ and not ‘for’ and the way he’s certainly softening despite knowing that Stark’s actions are all an act. He keeps his frown on from sheer force of will, and hardens his voice, “I’m here to kill you. I was sent here to kill you. Why would you want to recruit me?”

“You don’t actually want to kill me, otherwise I’d be dead already,” Stark points out calmly, “I’m merely offering you other options since your previous line of employment is now closed to you. Once word gets out that you’ve failed to take me out, no one will ever hire you again.” 

Stark pauses for a moment to let that sink in before his smug expression returns, “I can pay you ten times what they offered you for my life.” 

Bucky wants to wipe that tiny little smirk away, wants to see how it tastes under his lips and how easily he could break that unflappable calm facade that Stark showed the world. The thought and sudden surge of want should shock him, would shock him, but he had somehow known that Howard Stark wasn’t like anyone he’s ever met the moment he had set eyes on that slightly fuzzy candid photo he had been given when he had taken the job.

Bucky watches Stark for one long moment and Stark stares right back, expectant, secure in the knowledge that Bucky will do exactly what Stark wanted him to do. Stark is obviously a man used to getting anything he wanted, manipulating everything to suit himself, always in perfect control.

That should annoy Bucky, should piss him off, because men like Stark, powerful, rich and used to getting what they wanted, are exactly the type that he hates. Except, in Stark’s case, it’s different somehow. Stark’s unconscious arrogance and self assurance just makes Bucky want to push him back against the wall and make him lose that control, to hold him there, to touch and mark until Stark forgets everything, including his own name. The image of Stark flushed, disheveled, panting out Bucky’s name is an image that sends a low throb of _want_ through him.

“Fine.” Bucky nods sharply once and hesitates for one brief moment before he decides. He takes three steps in, effectively crowding Stark up against the wall he had been leaning against.

The flash of uncertainty in those ridiculously blue eyes makes Bucky’s lips curl upwards in satisfaction because Stark’s not the only one who can manipulate. Bucky decides that he likes seeing Stark, now apparently his new employer, wide eyed and off balance. But only if he’s the sole cause, obviously.

Bucky leans in, slow, giving Stark plenty of time to tell him no, to jerk away, to end this, but Stark does nothing but stare, eyes darting from Bucky’s half lidded gaze to his mouth and then back again. 

Smirking, Bucky closes the final few inches and their lips touch, gently at first but it fast becomes sharp and hungry. Stark capitulates, lets it all happen and a satisfying thrill thrums through Bucky, his hands tightening where they hold Stark’s wrist and chin. 

When Bucky leans back one long moment later, Stark’s eyes are wide, his lips are a bruised red and there's a pale flush rising on his high cheekbones. It makes Bucky want to kiss him again, harder, longer, but he refrains, instead sliding his weapon back into his holster, safety on. He lets himself enjoy the way that Stark seems to have temporarily lost his ability to speak, and now all Bucky wants is to know exactly what it would take for Stark to say nothing but Bucky’s name, again and again.

Bucky stands and keeps his distance only because he knows that there’s plenty of time now for him to try out every move he knew and trick he’s learnt to make it happen. And he’s very much looking forward to every moment of that.

He inclines his head, and doesn’t quite manage to hide his smile, sharp, predatory and so very pleased, “Well then, Mr. Stark, consider me hired and our contract sealed.”


End file.
